Gott mit uns
by Portuguese Irish
Summary: *re-written* They all thought it was the end of the line, but...
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: **so, I decided to re-write this story. English and German are not my first languages, so I apologize for any mistake.

I only own my OCs, Erich Weiber and Vanya (Ivan) Vasnetsov.

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><p><em> 'Gott mit uns', he could read on the buckle of his belt. A distressed smile came across his lips. Yeah, God... God, Gods, spirits, whatever... none would come to help him, to help his friends and comrades.<em>

_And why, after everything they had done? He looked around; once soldiers believing they were fighting for something, now war criminals, beasts. _

_Hosenfeld looked up, to the dark sky above his head. It was about to rain, more mud for the already muddy POW camp. Some of his comrades were already dead, but no one would take the Germans out the filth. Seemed they deserved to be there. The ex-captain sighed and felt tears burning his eyes. He found himself crying his eyes out for no reason. _

_No, actually there were many reasons._

_The strongest was fear._

_He, who had been taught to believe in the Nordic Gods, was terribly afraid of dying in that camp, alone, with no one to mourn him. No one to miss him. No one to remember him. And that's what scares a man the most; oblivion._

_And judgement._

_Time passed by, even though he could not feel it. Everyone around him was dying and Hosenfeld couldn't help but laugh sadly to be the last man standing. And just when he thought he could give up on life, something happened. A Russian soldier came to him and dragged him by the mud. Hosenfeld understood he had been taken out of the camp. Then he was shoved into the back seat of a car and he realized it was cold._

_He felt suddenly curious and looked around; who had been crazy enough to save him? For what he knew, his family had been killed during bombardments in Berlin. _

_Someone covered him with a warm blanket and Hosenfeld saw a face he thought he would never see again; Władysław Szpilman. And he smiled, a true smile for the first time in what felt like ages, and allowed himself to fall asleep.  
><em>

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><p><em>He just couldn't believe that...<em>

_He, who had such a promising career! He, who was the best from his division! He, who won a Ritterkreuz! He, the mighty arising, the one who had climbed from the lower class to the highest ranks, fighting everything and everyone! He, who only knew victories!_

_He, who was now sitting at a corner, begging for food, faced for the first time with defeat._

_Still, Erich knew he was lucky, very lucky. His black uniform was hidden under the big and heavy Russian trench-coat and that stupid bunch of Polish civilians and Russian soldiers couldn't identify a perfect Arian face when they had one right under their noses. _

_So time passed by, Erich grew more and more miserable and more and more angry with Fate. Until the day that man came next to him with a friendly smile. _

_And Erich smiled back to the Hauptmann*._

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><p><em>And right when he thought he couldn't be more miserable, Life tricked him; losing a leg and vision from the right eye wasn't enough, he had to be abandoned by his comrades and left to die in the snow, in a foreign country.<em>

_He wasn't a skilled begger._

_He was a helpless victim to everyone who passed by and thought he needed another bruise. _

_And that was how he was found, lying in the middle of the street, half-buried in snow._

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><p>* captain<p>

**Weeee, review?**


	2. Chapter 2

Hosenfeld couldn't really believe his luck.

During the first days he thought it all had been a dream, that he would wake up and find himself in the POW camp. But such didn't happen. He had a room of his own, a comfortable and warm bed, warm water to bathe, clean water to drink and warm food.

And company.

Later he found out that house had belonged to the Szpilman family, but now only one of them lived there. The others were all dead. And since the jewish pianist didn't want to live alone in that place and Hosenfeld didn't have a place to go, he stayed there.

It took a whole month for the German to recover, and during that month Szpilman did nothing but make him company. They talked a lot and Hosenfeld was eager to learn Polish, find a job and help his recently found friend; he wanted to start a new life as soon as possible and try to bury the past.

When Hosenfeld was finally able to do simple tasks like cooking or washing the dishes, Szpilman started to teach him some really basic Polish, and it didn't take long until the German could proudly present himself and name various types of food and furniture in Polish... with a terrible accent:

'I think I'm ready to go outside and face the world!', the German said one evening from the kitchen, after sucessfuly making dinner and not burning anything. Lately the jewish musician had been busy composing for the again operational radio where he worked and Hosenfeld had declared himself the official cooker. Szpilman smiled, still sitting at the piano in the living room:

'Take it easy, if I let you go outside alone no one will understand what you say!', he answered. However, it was difficult for both of them to take it easy; the musician, after starving and living alone and cold for years, always watching out for potential danger, and the German captain, obeying orders and ordering his soldiers to destroy, kill, and after spending that time in the POW camp, just wanted to have a normal life, live it fully and animatedly and try to ignore the still ruined buildings and piles of debris that surrounded them, and the occasional Soviet patrols:

'My Polish is on the way to perfection!', was the answer and Hosenfeld peeped from the kitchen, 'And your dinner is on the way to get cold.'

'Yes, call it 'perfection'...', Szpilman sighed, still smiling. He made his way to the kitchen and sat at the table, next to the German man, 'I'll talk to a few friends of mine who made it and came back... and see what I can get you.', he started to eat, Hosenfeld had forgotten the salt again, 'Do you have anything in mind?'

'To be honest, I have.', the German also realized the salt was missing, 'But it won't work.'

'Care to tell?'

'I'd like to do something related to the military, or the police.', Hosenfeld smiled sadly, 'It's the only thing I do right, as you can see for what's in these dishes... and when I went to the military school I was told I'd help people, and I want to help people.'

Szpilman just played with the food; one potato, one onion and one sausage. And they were lucky to have potatoes, onions and sausages to eat. Bread, only in special occasions. He looked at the German soldier and their eyes met:

'I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise you that.', the musician replayed, 'I can assure you a job in the radio, many that worked there left and didn't come back.'

Hosenfeld just nodded; anything would do, he really wanted to help.

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><p>'Can I ask you a favour?', Szpilman asked during the morning pause. His friend came over and leaned against the piano:<p>

'Sure!'

'I have a friend living with me, he needs a job.'

'Bring him, there's a lot of stuff to do here!'

'Do you think he'd have a chance as a policeman?', Szpilman scratched his head, 'He was... a German officer.'

The other man frowned and looked around, making sure they were alone:

'A German officer.', he repeated, trying not to sound angry and scared, 'A Nazi!'

'A German officer who helped me, who gave me food and a place to stay, a friend among foes. A German officer who needed to leave and told me he hoped to listen to me playing on the radio again.', the pianist explained calmly, 'He saved my life, I saved his from a POW camp.'

'He's German...'

'He's an honoured and respectable man, who lost his family and has nowhere to go.'

'Definitely, not the police.', the other man shook his head, 'He might be everything you say... but a German? No, no one would trust him.'

'That's what I thought...', Szpilman sighed sadly and his friend patted his shoulder:

'But you can always bring him... just tell him to never say a word, this is our secret.'

Back home, Szpilman found Hosenfeld reading a book. Or making a huge effor to do such. He closed the door and the German looked at him, shiny blue eyes and a big grin:

'I'm learning your History!', he exclaimed, 'It's interesting!':

'So, who was our first king?', Szpilman smiled and walked towards the couch, where he sat next to the German. Hosenfeld flipped through the book, frowning, and then appointed a portrait:

'Bolesław I Chrobry.', Hosenfeld answered:

'My God, you're actually reading!', and the pianist messed the German's hair with his hand, playfully. Hosenfeld colsed the book and put it aside, his smile gone:

'You look tense, is anything wrong?', he asked. The other man shrugged:

'Police and military are out of question for you.', he explained, 'But you can work in the radio...'

They remained quiet for a while, until the German man nodded.

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><p>A few months gone by and the Winter arrived. Hosenfeld was actually enjoying working in the radio, and everyone else was very pleased with his work.<p>

So, there was this day that Szpilman needed to stay a little longer, playing for some important people who visited the building, and Hosenfeld went home earlier to make them something to eat. The noon was cold but sunny, and the thick layer of snow that had fallen until that moment was melting slowly. The German was walking calmly, looking around, and concluded that Warsaw was a beautiful place, despite the ruins of some buildings. In fact, life was a beautiful thing!

Then he saw a beggar, sitting on the ground at a corner. He frowned, concerned; from refugees and normal citizens to former soldiers or prisoners of war, lately many of them had become beggars, having lost their families, homes, jobs... Indeed, he was a lucky man. Hosenfeld crossed the street and walked towards the beggar. He stopped in front of him and kneeled, smiling in a friendly way, but then he froze.

He knew that man.

The first time he had seen him, it was a beautiful day and he was watching a Geländeretein* circuit, not far from Berlin, and that man was riding a magnificent and powerful black horse and dressed a black uniform. Hosenfeld's comrades told him that man, at the time only 19 years old, was already a SS-Sturmmann**, a very talented one. And what an excellent sample of Germanic racial superiority he was!

Now... there he was, age 25, miserable, dirty, needing a good shave and a good haircut, and no beautiful horse with him:

'Unterscharführer*** Weiber?', he called in a whisper. The man looked at him and smiled, 'Erich...'

'Hauptmann Hosenfeld.', he replayed, smiling back, 'Good to see you.'

'My... What happened to you?', Hosenfeld frowned, puzzled and concerned, looking deep into the pair of icy grey eyes in front of him. Those eyes were still the same, though; ageless, fearless... and full of hatred. Erich's smile grew, bitter, showing pointy canine teeth:

'I survived Budapest...', was the answer. The older man sighed heavily, he had heard of the battle.

Hosenfeld looked around, bitting his lip, then stared to Erich again; he knew that man, it felt wrong just walk away and leave him there... but... taking him home sounded wrong too; it was Szpilman's house, and it happened that Szpilman was Polish and jew... and Erich was a fierce Nazi, an SS officer, a very proud one...

Erich coughed. Hosenfeld rubbed his face with the hands, desperate, and sighed again before standing up and offering Erich a hand:

'Come with me.', he said, _And don't make me regret this. _The younger man frowned, confused, but he accepted that hand. He let out a whimper as he stood up, chilled to the bone, sore and weak. Yet he managed to stand still and looked around, as if seeing that place for the first time. Hosenfeld bit his lower lip again; the younger man was still an impressive view. Erich picked up his small backbag and followed Hosenfeld.

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><p>*Cross-country<p>

**Lance Corporal

***Sergeant

**Weeee, review?**


	3. Chapter 3

**T**hanks so much for the review! :D

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><p>'Where are we?', Erich asked when Hosenfeld closed the door after them:<p>

'At a friend's house. A friend who is very dear to me.', the blue eyed man explained, seriously, 'And if you offend him I'll kick you out again, are we understood?'

'Jawohl, Herr Hauptman.', Erich replayed with a light frown; that friend of Hosenfeld was surely a very important and honourable man, he would show the Hauptmann he could handle the situation. Also, he was in no position of refusing help, and he would be most pleased in meeting the noble soul who had given shelter to the German captain.

He looked around, studying the living room; it surely belonged to an educated person, with all those books and the piano near the window. He followed Hosenfeld upstairs and they stopped at the top of the stairs:

'That's my room, and the room next door is my friend's.', Hosenfeld explained, appoiting the two doors at the left, 'These two are guest rooms, pick one for you.', and he indicated the two doors in front of them, 'And there's the bathroom, but if you want hot water you have to warm it up on the stove. I'll do that for you.'

Erich just nodded, grateful, and got in one of the guest rooms as Hosenfeld made his way down again. The room was small, with a bed near the window, a chest at the feet of the bed and a big mirror in the wall opposite to the door. Erich frowned before his horrible reflection; he needed a good bath, a good shave and a good haircut.

Hosenfeld came back some time later with two buckets of steaming hot water. Erich left his backbag over the bed and followed the older German to the bathroom:

'I'll wash those clothes and get new ones for you. Do you need help with the hair?', Hosenfeld asked as he emptied the buckets in the bathtub. Erich shrugged:

'I can do it myself.', he assured. Hosenfeld just nodded:

'You have razors, scissors and a new comb in that cabinet, near the sink. I'll just get you clothes and a towel.', and he left, closing the door behind him. Erich undressed the filthy Russian trench coat that hid his SS uniform from the world. With a sad smile, he removed the riding boots and undressed the uniform.

When Hosenfeld came back he was already in the water, trying to recall the last time he had had a bath like that. The captain left his new clothes over a chair near the bathtub and grimaced when he noticed the uniform:

'It's very dangerous to walk around with this uniform.', he said. Erich shrugged:

'The trench coat was big enough to hide it.'

'Still.', he picked up the dirty clothes, 'I presume you'll want to keep it.'

'If it's possible.', Erich smiled sadly again, 'Brings me good memories...'

Hosenfeld just sighed and left the younger one alone. He needed a good excuse for Szpilman.

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><p>Szpilman came back little later, tired and annoyed because the important people wanted him to play the same music over and over again. His annoyance turned into confusion when he found Hosenfeld in the kitchen, washing an SS uniform. The confusion turned into fear and he took a seat, already guessing the whole story.<p>

Hosenfeld tried to put on an innocent face, but the best he did was looking terribly guilty:

'I might have found someone I know... an SS officer, by the way... and... I might have brought him home because I felt sorry...', he started to explain. Szpilman grew paler:

'An SS officer...', he repeated lowly. Hosenfeld's eyes seemed bigger, shinnier and more imploring:

'He's just a kid! I mean, he's not exactly a kid, he's younger than us... but he's a good man, in spite of... being a fierce nazi...', he tried to smile, 'The knightly style...'

'He's going to kill me!', Szpilman hissed, widening his eyes, 'Are you mad, Wilm? They... those SS... the concentration camp... the ghetto!'

'He's not going to kill you!', Hosenfeld assured, leaving the uniform in the basin full of water and coming to kneel in front of his friend, 'I won't let him. I just...', he sighed and bit his lower lip, 'I'm sorry, I'll tell him he has to leave...'

The jewish musician looked around nervously, as if expecting the SS officer to show up with a Luger appointed at his head. But then he shook his head, trying to think clearly; Hosenfeld had a heart of gold, he didn't mean to upset him or put him in a dangerous situation... he has just been... noble, again, like he had been with him, years ago. And... if Hosenfeld trusted that officer... so he couldn't be that bad... right?

He rubbed his face and looked at the German:

'No... he... he can stay... it's fine... I'm just...'

'I shouldn't have done it, I'm so sorry! But... I couldn't leave him there!'

'It's fine. Just... keep an eye on him, yes?'

Szpilman stood up and thought about going upstairs and locking himself in the room, but the SS officer was surely upstairs too, and he didn't want to meet him yet. So, he sat on the chair again:

'His rank is lower than mine, he'll do whatever I say, I promise!'

There was silence for a while, until the jewish musician spoke again:

'So... I guess I'll make dinner while you finish washing that.', and he stood up. Hosenfeld stood up too and looked worriedly at his friend:

'Are you angry with me?', he asked. Szpilman smiled tiredly and shook his head:

'If you know him, it's because he's a good person... somewhere deep inside.'

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><p>When Erich looked himself in the mirror again he couldn't help but rise a surprised eyebrow; indeed, shaving and cutting hair really were magic tricks! He admired his aquiline nose and his strong jaw, and his perfectly drawn eyebrows and his thin lips that somehow seemed thinner. He didn't like the civilian clothes, though, but he was in no position of refusing things.<p>

He smiled bitterly and left the bathroom:

'Herr Hauptmann?', he called:

'Küche.*', came the answer. Erich trotted downstairs, crossed the living room and entered the kitchen. Hosenfeld was there and he had another man with him, peeling potatoes. The man startled and the potato he was peeling and the knife fell over the table. Hosenfeld sighed and smiled, 'This is Wladislaw Szpilman, my friend and owner of the house.'

Erich smiled and stepped forward, ready to shake hands with that man. However, before their hands touched, his smile died and he recoiled his hand, frowning:

'Wladislaw Szpilman... the jewish musician?', he asked, his grey eyes widening and moving towards Hosenfeld, waiting for an explanation. Szpilman stepped back, quickly, looking at both Germans, 'Ein Jude!**'

'Sei ruhig!***', Hosenfeld growled, and he suddenly looked much bigger and stronger, 'I forbide you to adress Herr Szpilman as 'jew' or any other synonim of it!', Erich clenched his jaw, 'Show some respect, you useless little soldier! Show some dignity, some gratitute! What kind of German are you, if you can't even show basic, civilized human emotions?'

Erich said nothing, hands behind his back, standing still, head low. Only his eyes moved, and the moment they met Spzilman's, the musician suddenly felt the urge of hiding under the table or, better, behind Hosenfeld, who was now walking in circles around Erich:

'I will not tolerate this behaviour, Unterscharführer Weiber! Verstehen Sie mich?****', and Erich nodded quietly, 'I forbide you to leave the perimeter, and if you ever again adress Herr Szpilman like that, I'll give you to the Russian authorities. Ja?'

'Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann.*****', Erich replayed after a minute of silence, head still low, eyes still moving furiously. Hosenfeld walked away from him:

'You should go upstairs and eat in your room, you seem a little nervous.', he suggested. But he had been a soldier and Erich believed he was still a soldier, so the younger German nodded and made his way upstairs, locked himself in the room and cried his eyes out; at first tears of hate, but the wrath became humiliation, loneliness and the realization that all of the things he believed in were gone.

His only friend was gone.

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><p>Wher Erich left the kitchen, Szpilman sat on a chair and Hosenfeld breathed slowly and deeply:<p>

'Obedient...', the musician mumbled:

'I'm sorry... I should have refered to you with a fake name...', the German replayed, scratching his head, 'I guess I'm going to confiscate his weapons, just in case.'

'He has weapons?', Szpilman grimaced, 'Can you please check if he didn't hide a tank under the bed? Or if he left an U-Boot in the bathtub, or mines in the living room...'

'I can do it, yes.', Hosenfeld smiled sadly, 'I'm really sorry...'

'At least he didn't punch me or shot me; he just called me 'jew', that's pretty nice from him!', he picked up the knife and the potato that were abandoned over the table, 'I hope he's not one of those SS special forces that can open locked doors and stuff like that, because it would be really unpleasent to wake up in the middle of the night with that... kid... trying to strangulate me.

'Erich is not a sneaky bastard.', Hosenfeld frowned, 'He might be a dangerous fanatic, but he has more values and ethics than many nazis I knew. He never killed an unarmed man and never attacked someone from behind, and that almost cost him his life for several times. All the medals he won were well-deserved and he's a very educated man. He's the perfect arthurian knight!'

Szpilman looked around, dramatically:

'I see no horse!', he concluded. Hosenfeld smiled, relieved.

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><p>* Kitchen.<p>

**A jew!

***Be quiet!

****Do you understand me? (note: 'sie' with capital 'S' is a form used in formal situations; 'sie' means 'she' or 'they')

*****Yes, sir.

**Weee, review?**


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